


tuesday nights

by knoxoursavior



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe, DCU, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 18:50:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12894495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior/pseuds/knoxoursavior
Summary: Tim stops taking pictures. It doesn’t feel right without Robin.





	tuesday nights

**Author's Note:**

> aka that dceu!tim fic

It’s Tuesday night, his parents are in Brazil, and Tim is perched on a window ledge, waiting for Batman and Robin to swing by.

Except Batman is alone that night, and again the next night, and again the next. Except news comes out that Jason Todd is dead, and Bruce Wayne only comes out of his manor for the funeral.

Tim stops taking pictures. It doesn’t feel right without Robin.

 

 

 

 

Tim tries to stop going out at night. He eats soup from a can and he does his homework and he reads until midnight.

He tucks himself in bed, tries to sleep, remembers how much he hates how still the house is, how quiet. He hates how his hands itch and how he feels like he’s suffocating and how he’s used to being so tired when he goes to bed that he falls asleep right away.

Tim lasts three nights before he goes back to watching. He doesn’t take pictures anymore, but he watches.

He watches Batman get a little bit more brutal each night, break a little more bones, spend a little bit more time beating criminals up before he drops them off at the GCPD’s doorstep. He watches Batman put away more people in one week than he usually does in a month, and it’s not just because there’s another wave of crime in Gotham.

It isn’t right. Tim knows it isn’t right. This isn’t the Batman he knows, isn’t the Batman he admires so much, and yet he still can’t stop watching, hoping that one day, Bruce will go back to being himself.

Except Bruce doesn’t. He gets worse.

Tim doesn’t stop watching.

 

 

 

 

Tim is in class when it happens. The ground shakes, an alarm sounds, and he stops writing. He jumps up from his seat, follows as the rest of his class runs outside, runs to safety, even though all he wants to do is to go up to the rooftop and look for any sign of Batman.

Except Batman doesn’t come out in the day, and this—this odd ship that’s latched itself onto Metropolis seems so much bigger than Batman.

So Tim runs, tries to make it through the day without a building falling on him, and looks out for his classmates like he knows Robin would have done.

Batman doesn’t come to save him, but Gotham’s a big city, and Tim can take care of himself.

 

 

 

 

_ Bat Brand of Justice _ , reads the headline.

Tim feels sick, feels like his skin’s been turned inside out. He didn’t think things could get worse,  but here he is, reading through the article but barely able to process it, mind stuck on the image of the man getting dragged by the police, a shape of a bat clearly branded on his chest.

He doesn’t understand it, can’t make any sense of it. Batman has always tried to give the police something to go on—anonymous tips, information leaked through the chats he and Commissioner Gordon keep under wraps, folders of evidence left on the GCPD’s doorstep.

He doesn’t just—do this. He doesn’t act under the law but he respects it. He lets criminals go through due process, lets even the worst of them live, doesn’t act like judge, jury, or executioner.

Tim needs to do something. He doesn’t know what, and he isn’t sure a kid like him could do anything remotely significant, but he can think of something.

He needs to.

 

 

 

 

It’s Tuesday night, his parents are in Japan, and Tim is dangling from a rooftop, barely holding onto the edge with one hand. He’s five stories up and Batman’s too busy with the breakout at Arkham two blocks away.

He doesn’t think he can get back up again, and he wonders briefly if he can drop down and grab onto another ledge, find a window he can climb through or maybe just so he’s closer to the ground. He’s not quite sure he can pull it off, but he’s going to die if he doesn’t try, and his hand’s already getting quite sweaty.

He should be able to take care of himself. He  _ has _ taken care of himself ever since he can remember. He can handle this.

“Right,” Tim says to himself. He looks down, confirms there is something he can grab onto, tries to ignore the queasiness bubbling in his belly. “I can handle this.”

Tim tries to imagine himself as Robin, tries to imagine that this is something that happens to him every other night. Except he doesn’t have a grapple or months and years of extensive training from Batman himself.

But he can do this.

Tim takes a deep breath, keeps his eyes open, and lets go.

He expects a rush of air, expects sheer panic as he scrambles for something to hold onto, but instead, he’s floating, his breath knocked out of him and his heart beating a mile a minute, safe in the arms of Superman.

“You’re fine. You’re safe,” Superman says, lips turned upwards in a concerned smile. “What’s your name, kid?”

Tim stares for a moment, misses a beat, because it’s  _ Superman _ and there’s something about him that Tim can’t help but admire. Maybe it’s that he’s an alien who chooses to protect, that even though he has all those powers and all that strength, he still chooses to be kind. Or maybe it’s that he never hesitates to cross lines and ignore politics if it means he can save people.

He’s not so different from Batman, Tim thinks, in the way that they both give their whole selves to those they protect.

“Tim. Timothy Drake.”

“Well, Tim, that was close, wasn’t it?” Superman says, his voice soft and his tone friendly as if Tim weren’t hanging by his fingertips just moments ago. It’s nice, and it makes Tim feel safe. “What were you doing up there, huh?”

“I was just looking at the moon,” Tim says, a little breathless as Superman sets him down on the ground, hands on his shoulders to keep him steady.

“Be more careful next time, okay?” Superman says, brushing a little bit of dust off Tim’s shirt sleeves.

“Okay, Superman,” Tim says, because he doesn’t really plan on almost falling to his death again unless it’s on purpose, or unless he has some rope with him. Besides, he doesn’t think anyone can say no to Superman.

Superman nods, pats Tim lightly on his back, and his smile is wobbly, transparent enough that Tim can see he’s still worried. “I’m going to take that as a promise, Tim.”

Superman makes as if he’s going to fly away, but Tim catches his cape, tugging lightly at it. “Are you here to help with the breakout?”

“Is that why you were really on the roof? Were you hoping to see the commotion from there?” Superman shoots back, and now his hands are on his hips, a bit of sternness slipping into his tone.

“I don’t think Batman would appreciate the help,” Tim says instead of answering. It’s as much of an admission anyway.

Superman raises his eyebrows. “What makes you say that?”

Tim shrugs, thinks of something else to say besides  _ he’s driven everyone away already.  _ Dick Grayson hasn’t been seen in Gotham since even before Jason became Robin. Batgirl disappeared around the same time as well. Even Catwoman hasn’t been seen with Batman for months _.  _ So why would Batman accept Superman’s help? Superman, the godlike alien who was involved in a fight that destroyed Metropolis and its neighboring cities. Despite all the good Superman’s done for the world, Tim doesn’t think Batman would be bound to forget that.

“I mean, he’s not exactly friendly.”

“I couldn’t say. I’ve never met him before,” Superman says, his head tilting curiously. “Have you met him?”

“No, I haven’t,” Tim admits. “But Batman can handle it by himself, I swear. It isn’t the first time this has happened.”

“I can get a few of them back in their cells without him knowing,” Superman says.

“He’ll know,” Tim says, and it’s true. Batman notices everything. Tim tugs at Superman’s cape again. “Please?”

Superman sighs. “Alright, Tim. But if he  _ really _ needs my help, I have to do something.”

“Of course,” Tim says, because he doesn’t expect anything else from Superman.

“Take care, Tim.”

Superman turns away, and Tim heaves a sigh of relief.

“I’ll try.”

 

 

 

 

**Gotham Gazette** @gothamgazette

“The world has been so caught up with what Superman can do that no one has asked what he should do.” – Senator Finch on the Nairomi incident

 

**Clark Kent** @dpclarkkent

My heart goes out to everyone in Nairomi whose loved ones died. #IStandWithNairomi

 

**Lois Lane** @dploislane

The truth will be found out one day, but for now, #IStandWithNairomi.

 

**Jimmy Olsen** @dpjimmyolsen

No one can be sure what really happened that day, but we do know that many lives were lost. #IStandWithNairomi

 

**Gordon Godfrey** @GGGodfreyOfficial

This is what we get when we allow aliens to run free.

 

**kyle** @kyleart

@GGGodfreyOfficial that’s not really a fair thing to say, isn’t it? he was probably there to try and save people.

 

**Leslie Willis** @iamlesliewillis

If you still like Superman after this, unfollow me right now.

 

**Siobhan** @siobsmythe

Same RT @iamlesliewillis If you still like Superman after this, unfollow me right now.

 

**DD** @blackcanarymusic_DD

black canary mourns for the victims in nairomi. whatever really happened, no one deserved to die. #IStandWithNairomi

 

**jaime** @jaimereyes

We don’t know the whole story yet. At least wait until the court hearing before you condemn him.

 

 

 

 

News comes out about the Superman incident in Nairomi, and it’s been horrible, seeing the backlash. Tim doesn’t think it makes sense, doesn’t think Superman could have killed all those people.

But of course, who better to blame than Superman? He has the power, the capacity for it. But Tim doesn’t believe it, doesn’t want to believe it. Superman’s the only remaining light in his life, the one source of hope he has left now that Batman’s all but lost to Tim. Superman couldn’t have done the things they’re accusing him of.

The next day, Tim gets into a fight at school for wearing a Superman shirt.

 

 

 

 

It’s Tuesday night, his parents are in Italy, and Tim’s decided to stay in, wrapped in a blanket as he watches a hastily-made documentary about all the good Superman has done in the past two years.

Tim wants to be angry, wants to be spiteful because Superman sacrificed himself for a world that doesn’t deserve it or Superman himself. The world certainly doesn’t deserve to be his monument, and yet here they are.

“Superman stopped being an enemy of the state the moment he chose to protect one of our own,” Colonel Lane says on the television. “He was a great ally, and the world is going to miss him.”

They don’t show any of the anti-Superman protests on the program. Tim supposes that they think it would have been disrespectful. Tim would disagree, would say that it shows even more how much Superman cares.  _ Cared _ .

Tim stays up until midnight to finish the show.

 

 

 

 

Batman is himself again.

Tim isn’t quite sure what happened, but he’s happy nonetheless, feels like a weight’s been lifted off his shoulders.

Batman saves Harley Quinn from drowning, when half a year ago, he probably would have chosen to go after Joker, would probably have left her to die and felt like it was for the best.

Batman shouldn’t be okay with letting someone die when he could very well have saved them. Not even if it means he gets to go after the man who killed his son.

And now that Batman is back, prowling Gotham’s rooftops, watching over her and the people she nurtures, and it makes Tim feel safer than he’s ever been the past few years.

He starts taking pictures again.

 

 

 

 

Tim is hiding behind a gargoyle, his camera in hand as he takes photos of Batman taking down Riddler’s men in the city square below him even under Scarecrow’s fear gas, when one of Ivy’s vines yanks him off the ledge, wrapping tightly around him to bring him down to the ground.

“Oh, who’s this? A fan?”

And then Harley Quinn’s looking down at him, a dangerous smile on her face and her giant mallet hanging over her shoulder.

“What were you doing up there, little boy?” Poison Ivy asks, coming to stand beside Harley. Her vines help Tim stand up.

“I’m thirteen,” Tim says instead of answering her actual question, partly because he isn’t really sure how she might take the truth, but also mostly because his brain feels like it’s short-circuiting at the moment.

He’s never been this close to the fight. He’s never actually  _ talked _ to Batman or the people he puts away, but he supposes there’s a first time for everything.

“Did ya hear that, Ivy? He’s thirteen.” Harley laughs, patting Tim’s cheek almost affectionately. “He’s not little anymore. Ya know what I was up to when I was thirteen?”

“Getting good grades in school,” Ivy says, raising an eyebrow at Harley.

“Well, yes, but I wasn’t thinkin’ about that, silly,” Harley says, wrapping an arm around Ivy’s shoulders. “When I was thirteen—”

“Let go of the boy.”

And, oh, that’s  _ Batman _ . And the boy he’s referring to is  _ Tim _ .

“Done already, Batsy?” Harley says, peering at the unconscious men scattered around behind Batman. The Riddler and Scarecrow are tied to each other, arguing. She scrunches her nose. “Well, that was fun while it lasted.”

“We didn’t harm him,” Ivy says, regarding Batman cautiously. She keeps her plants out of Batman’s way, but her vines are twitching, waiting for any move Batman may make.

“It’s true,” Tim says, because it  _ is _ , and because Harley and Ivy are actually really nice if you don’t cross them and if you like plants. He doesn’t think they’ve caused a lot of trouble tonight. Harley was mostly laughing at Scarecrow tripping on Ivy’s plants and Ivy was mostly just being  _ Ivy _ .

“You were still helping the Riddler and Scarecrow. I have to take you in,” Batman says.

“They’re not so bad,” Tim mutters, loudly enough that he knows Batman can hear him.

“See, the kid doesn’t think you should take us in,” Harley says, ruffling Tim’s hair. Tim manages not to startle, and nods.

Batman grunts, and Tim swears it feels like Batman is staring at him. He tries not to fidget.

“I’m keeping an eye on you,” Batman says, finally relenting. “Any hint of suspicious activity...”

“And you’ll take us back to Arkham, we get it,” Ivy says, but her voice rises into a yelp near the end. When Tim turns to look at her, she’s rubbing her side and glaring at Harley. “What was that for, Harley?”

“You were rolling your eyes at Batsy,” Harley says, pouting.

Ivy’s eyebrows furrow. “It’s not like he doesn’t already keep tabs on us.”

“Yeah, but sometimes you just gotta let him talk,” Harley says. Then, she leans in closer to Ivy, mock-whispers, “To tell you the truth, I only hear half what he says. It’s always the same thing, ya know?  _ You don’t have to do this, Harleen. The Joker is just using you, Harleen.  _ Like I don’t already know that.”

Tim turns to look at Batman, curious about his reaction—which is probably nothing at all because he’s Batman—except, well.

“He’s gone now,” Tim says, tugging lightly on Harley’s arm.

“What?” Harley says, caught in the middle of something Ivy’s telling her.

“Batman’s gone,” Tim repeats, a little louder this time.

Ivy sighs. “Of course he is.”

“Huh. Well, we gotta run before the good ol’ Commissioner gets here. See ya around, little boy!” Harley says, shooting Tim a smile before she starts running towards the tank she’s abandoned where she crashed it against a toy store wall.

“Stay indoors when the Bat is out, little one. It’s unsafe,” Ivy says.

Tim doesn’t get a chance to reply because Ivy’s already walking away, probably to tell Harley that she can’t crash into any other buildings now that Batman’s watching them. But then,  he doesn’t really think she’d appreciate the fact that he actually follows Batman around to take pictures.

Tim looks around, sees the cracked asphalt, the little fires all around the street, all the men waiting for the police to pick them up, and he heaves a sigh.

He wonders if running with Batman feels as crazy as this night.

 

 

 

 

It’s Tuesday night, his parents are in Milan, and Tim’s at home, curled up in bed but still listening intently to the radio he’s modified into a police scanner.

He’s looking out for any mention of Batman, though it seems like a quiet night so far. The last time something big went down was two days ago when Firefly attempted to set the Public Library on fire.

Tim already misses it though, being out there, waiting for a chance to see Batman again, even if most of the time, he ends up going home without any new pictures in his camera. But he can’t risk going out, not when Batman knows about him.

Of course, Batman probably doesn’t know about what Tim’s been doing but it’s likely that he knows who Tim is. They’ve met twice already as Tim Drake and Bruce Wayne, during the rare times that Tim’s parents are home and they think he ought to be shown off at a gala again.

Bruce Wayne has always been nice to Tim, handing him food samplers whenever waiters pass by while he’s conversing with Tim’s parent and ruffling his hair and smiling kindly at him. Tim is almost sure that Bruce must have recognized him when he was caught with Harley and Ivy all those nights ago.

Tim isn’t sure Batman would be as nice though, especially if he finds Tim loitering around his patrol route again. Once is fine. Twice is a coincidence he won’t dismiss.

The Joker breaks out of Arkham Asylum and goes straight to City Hall. Tim knows because it’s all he’s heard from the television for three hours now.

The Joker and his men have taken the mayor hostage, and all he’s saying to the police is that he wants to talk to Robin, and that if Robin doesn’t come to trade himself for the mayor by midnight, then it’s goodbye to Mister Mayor.

Tim doesn’t really see the point of it other than riling Batman up, but then again, the Joker has always liked pushing Batman’s buttons, pushing him to the edge.

Tim only lasts until ten o’clock before he’s running out of the house, his camera tucked inside his coat pocket.

Dick Grayson is still out of town, and Tim is pretty sure that Batman hasn’t found himself a new Robin either. Tim knows there’s no way Robin will show up that night, no way for the Joker’s demands to be met, but he knows Batman will have a plan. Batman always has a plan.

And at first, it goes well.

The power goes off, sends the Joker’s men into a panic, and when the lights turn back on, half of them have already been knocked out. But it’s not enough. It won’t be enough.

The Joker has a gun pressed to the mayor’s head. He could kill the mayor right now, but he doesn’t, because he’s waiting. Because Batman isn’t done yet. And that’s exactly what Batman was banking on.

“I don’t see Robin,” the Joker says once Batman takes down the last of his men. And Bruce’s shoulders are visibly heaving, his breath heavy from his bruised ribs and exertion. “Do you not want to save the mayor, Batman?”

“Let him go,” Batman says, and Tim wonders how Batman can still sound so collected, even though a man is about to be killed in front of him, even though it’s  _ the Joker _ .

The Joker laughs, and the arm he has wrapped around the mayor’s neck tightens, the safety of his gun clicking loudly amidst the sirens outside. “But I wanna see Robin first.”

A muscle jumps in Batman’s jaw. “Let the mayor go, Joker.”

It’s eerie, seeing the Joker grin, his eyes bulging out as he slaps the mayor’s cheek with the barrel of his gun in time with his laughs.

“Haven’t gotten a new one yet, then?” the Joker says, baring his teeth. “That’s a pity. I kinda miss the little squirt.”

“Let him go, Joker,” Batman repeats, but the Joker has no reason to, and there’s no way Batman can get the gun out of his grasp without potentially getting the mayor killed.

The only way Batman can have a better chance is if he gives the Joker a bit of a surprise. And, well, Tim’s realizing that he may be able to help with that. Because that’s what Batman needs sometimes, what Robin provides willingly and happily—a distraction.

He sighs, takes his handkerchief and wraps it around the lower half of his face.

Batman probably has him under surveillance already anyway. Things can’t get much worse for Tim Drake if he goes out there and pretend to be Robin, so he takes his handkerchief and uses it to cover the bottom half of his face.

“Looking for Robin? Well, here I am,” Tim says, and he really hopes his voice isn’t shaking. He walks away from the shadows, dressed in his red sweater and his black sweatpants, trying to ignore the frown on Batman’s face.

“Well, who do we have here?” the Joker says, but he doesn’t get the chance to hear an answer, doesn’t even get the chance to take a closer look at this boy who’s claiming to be Robin but looks remotely nothing like the Boy Wonder, because Batman has already rushed at the Joker, knocking the gun out of his hand and injecting a tranquilizer into his bloodstream in one fell swoop.

And it’s done. Or, well, it’s supposed to be. But Batman’s just—standing there. Looking down at the Joker unconscious on the ground. He’s so  _ still _ . Like he’s waiting, getting ready to pounce. And that should be odd when the Joker has already been dealt with, but then there’s so much more to it than the Joker having taken the mayor hostage. Too much.

“You’re safe now, Mayor,” Tim says, ignoring the way Batman almost—startles.

“Thank you… Robin. Batman,” the mayor says, and then he’s walking out the room, probably to give a statement to the police. It would baffle Tim, how well the mayor’s taking this—being held hostage and being saved by Batman—but he supposes being mayor makes you a prime target for both those things.

Tim, on the other hand, doesn’t get to leave so soon.

Batman frowns at him. “Are you following me, Timothy?”

“It’s just Tim.”

“Are you following me, Tim?” Batman amends.

Tim clenches his fists, sucks in a breath. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

Batman tilts his head slightly, and Tim wonders if he’s trying to make sense of Tim or just thinking about the best course of action. “How long have you been following me?”

Tim closes his eyes for a moment, sees the first night he went out, thinking he had to see it himself—had to confirm that he wasn’t just imagining things and that Robin really was the same Richard Grayson who hadn’t hesitated to smile and hug and make him feel warm and welcome all those years ago.

“Four years.”

Batman grunts, turns away.

“Come with me.”

Well, Tim doesn’t think he has much choice.

 

 

 

 

Tim is sitting inside the Batmobile, and Batman is offering him some  _ cookies. _ He hasn’t had cookies since he was four years old when his parents still thought he was at an appropriate age for them, and here the big bad Bat is, offering him cookies that his butler probably made.

It’s all still a little bit unreal, even though he’s already had at least ten minutes to take in the interior of the Batmobile as Batman drove him to his house.

Still, Tim takes the cookie. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Batman says, just as he takes a bite out of his own cookie. “That was a dangerous thing you did, Tim.”

Tim bows his head. “I know that, but you needed help and I was there.”

Batman hums. “Do you take pictures?”

And, well, that had to come up sooner or later. Tim didn’t exactly make an effort to hide his camera.

“Yes, but I don’t do anything with them. I don’t show other people or anything like that. I can give them to you, if you want.” Tim says, but if he wraps his coat a little bit tighter around himself so he can feel his camera pressing against his ribs, well, he thinks it’s a little bit justified.

“It’s alright, Tim. I believe you,” Batman says, turning to look at him with a strange twist to his mouth, like he’s  _ smiling _ . Tim has never seen Batman smile besides for the press as Bruce Wayne. Then again, Batman stays in the shadows more than Robin ever has, and Batman must have smiled for at least one of Robin’s jokes.

Batman offers Tim another cookie after he finishes the first one. Tim takes it. The cookies are delicious—better than most things Tim’s had his whole life.

“Do you know who I am?” Batman asks.

“You’re Batman,” Tim says.

Batman gives him a look, and Tim knows that underneath his cowl, he’s raising an eyebrow at Tim.

Tim sighs. “You’re Bruce Wayne.”

Batman nods. “How did you figure it out?”

“When I was four, my parents took me to see the Flying Graysons, and when I was nine, I saw a video of Robin doing a flip only a Grayson can do.” Tim says. “It wasn’t too hard to figure everything else out from there.”

Batman huffs, but when Tim looks up at him, there’s that little twist to his mouth again. “Dick will be self-conscious about doing anything he learned from the circus when he finds out.”

Tim lets himself smile. “I hope not. He always looks amazing when he does them.”

“That he does,” Batman says, his tone sobering once again. Then, he reaches over and presses a button on the dashboard, opening the Batmobile’s door. “I’ll be seeing you again, Tim.”

And, well, Tim finds he doesn’t find the thought of it as troubling as before.

“Yeah, see you, Batman.”

 

 

 

 

It’s Tuesday night, Tim’s parents are in Bangkok, and Batman— _ Bruce Wayne _ is sitting in his living room, sipping some coffee Tim hastily made for him.

“Would you like to be Robin?” Bruce asks him.

Tim freezes. “Me? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am,” Bruce says, and his expression is soft, his voice calming.

Tim knows that Batman has the capacity to be gentle, could see it in the comforting hand on Dick’s shoulder during his parents’ funeral, and in the way Batman talks to the children he finds hidden away in dark alleys, wrapped around themselves, before he carefully leads them to the nearest shelter funded by the Wayne Foundation.

However, having that gentleness directed at himself is a different experience altogether.

Tim doesn’t think it would be so bad to work with this man, be his partner, be the Robin to his Batman.

“I’m going to be Robin,” Tim says, feeling a little breathless. “Okay.”

Bruce nods. “Come to the lake house tomorrow at eleven. And don’t eat lunch.”

“Okay?” Tim says, and he didn’t really mean for that to come out like a question, but he just assumed they’d go straight into training.

“Alfred wants to meet you,” Bruce says, just as he sets down his cup, stand up, and dusts off his slacks.

_ Alfred _ wants to meet him. Tim’s heard of Alfred, of course, seen his name in the old articles around the time Bruce’s parents died. Alfred has been with Bruce from the start and he wants to meet  _ Tim _ .

“Of course. I’m looking forward to meeting him as well,” Tim manages to say as he follows Bruce to the door.

“He’ll be glad to hear that,” Bruce says, turning to smile at Tim. “Thank you for the coffee, Tim,”

“Anytime, Mr. Wayne.”

 

 

 

 

Tim has been training for eight months when Bruce finally lets him go out as Robin.

Tim hasn’t actually taken a photo with his camera for longer than that, but he wishes he could use it right now, just as he’s standing on a crane overlooking the whole of Gotham, his cape flapping in the wind. He’s  _ Robin _ , and he’s going to protect this city, and just—he isn’t sure he can handle it all but he’s going to try.

“How does it feel, Robin?” Batman asks, and he’s amused, Tim can tell. There’s that lightness to his voice again, like the rare moments Tim manages to find a way around one of his training exercises, or when Bruce encourages Alfred nagging about Tim drinking too much caffeine just because it takes the spotlight away from himself.

“It feels amazing, Batman,” Tim answers.

He wonders if Dick felt this way too. Perhaps he did, but Dick grew up in the circus. He’s used to putting on a show in a way that Tim never could be. It’s different, falling off of a roof or holding onto his grappling gun as he swings around Gotham, when he didn’t grow up doing anything remotely similar to it.

Tim can only imagine what it felt for Jason, someone who grew up in the bad part of Gotham and probably was told he couldn’t be anything more than a criminal.

“Let’s go, Robin,” Batman says, stepping up onto the ledge as he fires his grappling gun at the next roof.

Tim takes a deep breath, lets himself just  _ look  _ one last time.

“Right behind you, Batman.”

 

 

 

 

“Have you gotten any sleep?”

Tim peers up at Alfred who has his arms crossed, his hip leaning against the desk. “I’m not sure what you want me to say, Alfred.”

“Why does everyone in this family insist on giving me headaches?” Alfred says, rolling his eyes.

Tim snickers. “I’m not that bad and you know it, Alfred. It’s Bruce you have to worry about.”

“Oh, believe me, I know that,” Alfred says, and by the way he sighs, he does sound like he’s been on the receiving end of Bruce’s stubborn attitude one too many times already today.

Tim smiles, burrows himself further into his seat, looks back at the screen where it shows the feed from the Batwing. Bruce is only just coming home after doing some recon for Diana in Seattle. “I’m just going to wait until he gets to Gotham, then I promise I’m going to rest.”

“I can take over for you,” Alfred says,  and he’s already pulled a chair beside Tim.

“No, it’s fine,” Tim says. “You’ve been doing this longer than I have. I can do this myself for tonight.”

“Timothy,” Alfred starts, and that catches Tim’s attention. Alfred never says anything other than _ Master Tim _ or  _ Master Bruce _ , even though it’s really Alfred who’s in charge in their household. “He’s going to be fine. You don’t always have to be there for him.”

Tim sighs. “I know that. But we always look out for him anyway, because I’m Robin and you’re Alfred.”

“God knows why we do,” Alfred says, even though they both know why.

Because Bruce loves Gotham, and Bruce is going to go on with or without them, and they’d rather be there to make sure he doesn’t get himself killed.

Tim bites his lip, feels his chest heave with relief when he sees the familiar skyline of Gotham City on the screen.

“I don’t know, Alfred. I really don’t.”

 

 

 

 

Tim is stuck on a field trip when someone tries to take over the world. He hears about it on the radio when they’re on the way home to Gotham but Alfred tells him not to worry when he calls, so Tim supposes it’s not so bad after all.

Then Tim comes back to the Cave and finds that Bruce and Diana have somehow gotten all of Luthor’s metahumans fighting alongside them, along with Superman who is very much alive.

Still, Tim would have liked to have been there, and he probably would have insisted on coming, or at least overseeing the mission so Bruce won’t get himself killed. Tim’s lucky that Diana likes Bruce enough not to let him die, even though Barry did let it slip that Bruce lashed out against her.

Tim wonders if it was because they were talking Superman again, wonders how Bruce can so easily shift from hating Superman to admiring him to being willing to do anything for him. Tim thinks of Gotham and understands, just a little bit.

“I’m never letting you out of my sight,” Tim says to Bruce that night. Alfred’s dressing the countless wounds on Bruce’s torso while Tim works on Bruce’s twisted ankle.

“I wouldn’t expect anything else from you,” Bruce says, obviously just humoring Tim. It’s not the best attitude to have when Tim could literally press on his ankle right now and make him pay for it, but Tim actually cares about Bruce and, anyway, he’s not that petty.

“Do I need to remind you again that I have pictures of you sleeping and drooling on Alfred’s pancakes?” Tim says, eyes narrowed, because okay, he’s still a little petty.

“He’s got you there, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, and nothing feels better than having Alfred take your side.

Bruce rolls his eyes. “You’re both horrible.”

“Thanks,” Tim says, and he’s so, so tempted to make Bruce promise to be more careful next time, but Tim knows he’s better off not hearing promises bound to be broken. It only hurts more that way.

So he shuts his mouth and works, continues to tend to Bruce’s wounds, until he feels a hand on his head, ruffling his hair.

When Tim looks up, he sees that Bruce is looking down at him, the slightest hint of a smile on his face. “I missed having you by my side, Tim.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, softly, all his anger and doubt gone suddenly. “Yeah, I missed you too, Bruce.”

Tim knows it’s the closest thing to an apology he’s going to get.

 

 

 

 

Tim can fight. He knows he can, but when he has to fight off ten people at once—well.

Batman’s doing better, of course. He doesn’t have a knife in his thigh or a bullet in his shoulder, but he’s  _ Batman _ and he’s been doing this for years. Tim has only been out on the streets for the better part of three months.

But it shouldn’t be an excuse. He can do better.

He delivers a quick uppercut, dodges someone about to barrel into him, takes a quick look to check if Batman’s okay before he drives his bo staff up another man’s skull.

They just need fifteen seconds. fifteen seconds to stall and to try and not get killed before the smoke bombs detonate and spread the antitoxin.

Tim kicks someone on their side, ducks to avoid a pen to his throat, throws a batarang at a lady who’s about to come at Batman with an axe.

Five seconds.

Tim sees Batman struggling against a man who has an arm around his neck, with four other people holding his feet down. The catch in Batman’s suit along his ribs is exposed, and it looks like Tim isn’t the only one who’s noticed.

Four seconds. That won’t be enough for these people to realize that they shouldn’t be stabbing Batman. It also won’t be enough for Tim to help Batman take all of them down from where he is, but he has to try anyway.

Three seconds. Tim grabs his grappling gun and fires it at one man’s leg just as he breaks free from a hand pulling at his hair.

Two seconds. There’s someone holding a shard of glass in their bleeding hand who’s much too close to Batman than Tim would like. Tim throws another batarang. He knows it won’t reach Batman in time.

One second—there’s a flash of red.

Zero. The bombs detonate, people around him start to collapse to the ground, smoke blocks Tim’s vision. He needs to know if Batman’s okay.

The comm sizzles to life.

“Robin. Report,” Batman says. Tim lets himself breathe.

“Batman,” Tim acknowledges. His breathing is labored, his thigh throbbing. “I could be doing worse, considering.”

Batman suppresses a sigh. Tim can tell—he’s heard it too many times already not to be familiar with the sound of it. “Robin.”

“I’m fine,” Tim insists. The smoke is starting to clear, though he still can’t see Batman. Tim starts off in the direction he last saw Bruce. “Report.”

“Doing better than you are,” Batman says, because even though he’s supposed to be the grown up between the two of them, he can be petty when he wants to be.

“You’re both heavily injured. But especially you, Robin,” Alfred says and he sounds so tired that Tim kind of feels bad for making light of the situation.

“Sorry, A,” Tim says.

“You need to watch out for yourself more,” Batman says, and Tim can see him now, kneeling down as he scans one of the people affected by the toxin.

“I’m trying,” Tim says, and he is.

“Try harder,” Batman says, but his tone is soft, gentle, like he knows Tim means well, like he appreciates it.

“I will,” Tim promises.

Batman nods, and as he stands up, Tim catalogs his injuries and—nothing on his ribs. Tim’s eyebrows furrow. Maybe he made a mistake in calculating his batarang’s trajectory? Or maybe Batman somehow got out of the way? He’s going to have to have to check the security camera tapes later.

“The GCPD’s sending teams out around the city,” Alfred says.

Batman turns away, starts to walk back to the Batmobile. “Let’s go home, Robin.”

“Home where A’s going to kick our asses?” Tim says, grinning as he runs to catch up with Batman. “Sure, old man.”

 

 

 

 

There’s something wrong.

Tim has reviewed the footage countless times already, has looked at every angle available of the scene, and yet he still can’t explain what happened.

One frame, the man is so close to getting to Batman. Too close.

The next, there’s that flash of light, quick and incomprehensible.

Well, perhaps not so incomprehensible. He has an inkling who it might be, but isn’t sure how he’s supposed to deal with it, or if he needs to at all. If he were to guess, then he’d say that Bruce does know, because Bruce knows everything, which brings him to the problem of figuring out why, if that’s the case, Clark doesn’t just stop and chat after he helps.

Right. Looks like he needs to find a way to talk to Superman, because clearly, Tim’s got a better chance of making him talk rather than Bruce.

 

 

 

 

Tim wakes up to someone shaking him gently.

“Hey, baby bird. Alfred sent me to get you.”

Tim struggles to open his eyes, sees the faint outline of a smile and gets a whiff of the too-sweet cereal that occupies an entire cabinet of its own in the kitchen.

“Your hair’s long again,” he murmurs, and if his lips spread into a happy little smile, well, he can’t really help it. “When did you get here, Dick?”

“An hour ago, maybe. Missed me?” Dick says, pinching Tim’s cheeks.

Tim scrunches his nose, but then again, he needs all the help he can to stay awake instead of drifting back to sleep. “What were you doing for an hour?”

Dick rolls his eyes. “It’s me, Tim. I was eating cereal.”

“Of course you were. I can’t believe Alfred lets this happen in this household,” Tim says.

“Distance makes the heart grow fonder, baby bat,” Dick says, just as he slides an arm underneath Tim’s shoulders to pull him up.

“I can’t believe I get threatened to have my caffeine supply taken away while you get to eat all the cereal you want. How is this fair, Dick?” Tim laments even though he does let Dick take away the pillow Tim’s hugging and replaces it with himself.

“I don’t remember you being this dramatic in the mornings,” Dick says.

“I got too much sleep,” Tim grumbles. He wonders when Alfred started to give him decaf coffee instead of his usual last night.

“Yeah, Bruce sent me a picture of you drooling on your pillow after you’d been asleep for eight hours,” Dick says, not even bothering to hide his glee.

“Bruce sent you a  _ picture _ ?” Tim nose wrinkles. “I’m supposed to be the only one who gets to use pictures as blackmail in this family.”

“He just wanted to document it, you know. You slept for  _ eight hours _ , Tim. That’s like sixteen hours for people who don’t go out at night dressed in booty shorts.”

“I got rid of the booty shorts, remember?” Tim says, and okay, maybe he wears shorts at home sometimes, but he does draw the line at wearing them for patrols.

“And I don’t know why you did. They’re comfy,” Dick says.

“Someone could stab my leg and the knife would just be _ in my leg _ , Dick,” Tim says, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m pretty sure you’d dodge, Timmy.”

Tim sighs. “Why are we having this conversation, Dick? How many times have I told you that your sense of fashion is horrible?”

“That’s hurtful, Tim. I can’t believe you’d say that,” Dick says, just as he snuggles further into Tim’s embrace just to spite him.

“I can’t believe Alfred and Bruce didn’t have aneurysms after they saw any of your suit designs,” Tim says, and he really can’t. He’s seen the sketches. He  _ knows _ .

Dick makes a little noise in his throat, like he wants to protest but he can’t because he’s obviously wrong about this and he can’t deny it anymore.

“Okay, but I guess you’ve been getting better lately. I like your new Nightwing suit. And you stopped wearing crocs, so there’s that?” Tim says, because he’s not a  _ monster _ .

Dick brightens up right away, because he’s like that—positive and easy to please and probably way too affectionate.

“Can we go back downstairs now? Alfred might let me eat cereal again if I bring you with me,” Dick says.

Alfred won’t. Dick is going to try and guilt Alfred into it but Alfred is not someone who gets  forced into things so easily.

Still, Tim’s not going to say that to Dick.

“Fine. Now get off me for one minute so I can actually stand up.”

 

 

 

 

The easiest way to talk to Clark, Tim realizes, is just to ask him—or to ask him through Diana, really, because even though he and Tim have met, Tim feels like it’s better to go through someone safe like Diana instead of looking up his email or phone number. So Tim doesn’t sleep in the lake house or the Cave for once and goes back to the Drake mansion, telling Bruce that he needs something there for class. It’s not the best excuse, and more likely than not, Bruce doesn’t believe him, but Bruce is out patrolling. Anyway, it won’t matter if everything goes according to plan.

So Tim opens his bedroom window, Alfred’s cookies ready on his bedside table, and waits for Superman to come. Superman does come, around five minutes later, cape flowing in a way Tim can’t ever make his own do.

“Hey, Clark,” he says. “Cookie?”

“Hey,” Clark says, accepting a cookie before Tim goes and sits on his bed while Clark leans against his windowsill. “Mind telling me why I’m here, Tim?” 

“I wanted to ask you a question,” Tim says, and when Clark nods, he continues, “Have you been following Bruce around?”

It’s a stretch, really. Tim has only ever caught Clark once, but he’s studied the reports Bruce has written up the past few weeks, and he can’t deny that there are too many lucky breaks, too many gaps. Bruce never leaves gaps in his reports, which is why Tim cut his hours of sleep down even further the last few days trying to look for a trend or a code. If he’s right, then Clark would have helped out five times in the last two months.

Clark, surprisingly, doesn’t even try to look innocent.

“I mean, I haven’t been  _ following  _ him exactly.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong, Clark. This isn’t a talk where I tell you to mind your own business,” Tim says, allowing himself a small smile to make Clark feel more comfortable.

“What kind of talk is this, then?” Clark asks.

“One where you tell you that I appreciate you trying to help, and that maybe you should actually just stop by after and check on Bruce like you’ve always been welcome to do,” Tim says, because it’s honestly a little rude that Clark just zooms around and doesn’t even let anyone know he’s there so Clark can ruffle Tim’s hair and rub the back of his neck while Alfred asks him how he is and Bruce broods in the background.

Clark looks away from Tim. “Bruce wouldn’t want me hanging around Gotham too much.”

“Well, he lets you help when you think he’s not looking, so maybe you’re wrong about that, Clark,” Tim says, because he actually spends most of his time with Bruce, and he knows that even though Clark hasn’t been dead for a while now, Bruce, in some ways, is still driven by the hope that Superman represents. That's the Batman equivalent of wanting Clark to be his friend, in Tim's opinion. Tim doesn’t even know where Clark could’ve gotten the impression that Bruce wouldn’t want him around, considering that Bruce bought a bank to get the Kent farm back, and that Bruce was literally the one pushing to bring Clark back to life.

Anyway, Tim’s pretty sure he’s seen Bruce looking into buying the Daily Planet and a penthouse suite with a view of the Planet’s rooftop, so Tim would even say that Bruce would _love_ for Clark to start hanging around more.

“Just drop by, next time, okay? He’s going to pretend to brood about it, but he’ll come around,” Tim says. “We don’t even need to be in a fight for you to come. Drop by for dinner, maybe—Alfred would love it.”

Clark smiles, nods, looks like he’s actually considering it, so Tim supposes things might just go according to plan.

“I’ll let you know, Tim.”

 

 

 

 

It’s Tuesday night, his parents are in Stockholm, but Tim doesn’t really have time to think about them when he’s sitting with Bruce, Clark, and Dick around the dinner table, trying not to laugh at the tired frown on Bruce’s face brought on by Dick telling everyone about the time Bruce thought it was a good idea to buy a diner just because Dick liked their hashbrowns so much.

“Not that the hashbrowns were bad, because they could give Alfred a run for his money, but I actually just liked one of their servers,” Dick says.

Bruce sighs. “Dick, you flirted so much. You talked about him more than you talked about school. I knew.”

“Anyway,” Dick says, completely ignoring Bruce, “the point is that Bruce throws his money around. That’s just how he is.”

Clark nods, unable to hide a smile. “I know.”

Tim muffles his laugh by stuffing his mouth with salad.

It’s Saturday night, his parents are in Stockholm, but Tim’s with his family and he’s alright.

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on [tumblr](http://clqrkkent.tumblr.com/)!


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